


Between Us Now, Two Thrown Together

by Fickle_Obsessions



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies RPF, Thor (2011) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M, Roughness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-16
Updated: 2012-07-16
Packaged: 2017-11-10 01:47:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fickle_Obsessions/pseuds/Fickle_Obsessions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A picture of Tom got me and a friend all worked up (nothing new). But this time we got together and plotted out a bit of what would happen if that dapper early 20th century Tom went walking and came across a good looking and very forward lower class lad like Chris.</p><p>If you imagine <i>Maurice</i> constantly you'll have pretty much the right idea.</p><p>  <a href="http://fickleobsessions.tumblr.com/post/27171909785/so-this-picture-right-drawsaurus-and-i-could-not"> (It was this picture, if you were curious.)</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Between Us Now, Two Thrown Together

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by a Thomas Hardy poem.

They are well into a new era, old Queen Victoria long buried now, and without her hand laid upon the world’s shoulder in matronly restraint it feels as if mankind can scarcely keep apace with new each new piece technology or new form of art. Tom had thought upon his graduation from Oxford that this time in history was like a peach ripe for the picking. Yet the group of fellows he went to school with, educated and well-bred though they may be, have all come to bore him. So too the world that they offer him, though he sits for their paintings and listens to their poetry. He hears and sees echoes of himself in their work but finds it hollow. No spark transfers from their works to his heart. There is no thrill, he now knows, in being their muse, and his reward for reaching adulthood has proved to be nothing more than sherry, playing cards and the expectation that he will soon devote equal time to business and politics as well as art.

None of his friends show much concern for his melancholic moods, finding them somehow appropriate. In fact they seem to prize him all the more for his sadness and no solution is even given or encouraged. Tom finds himself made a symbol of a youth he feels no connection to, a example of the price that must be paid for the time they live in. A rather joyless designation in Tom’s estimation.

Having no one to talk to about it, Tom sometimes takes long walks through London to soothe his restlessness, suited and booted in his his hat, coat and spats, a wanderer with no path. As he walks he becomes so lost in thought that he rarely takes much notice of his surroundings, and even less does he acknowledge those he passes by. In the tree lined avenues close by the home Tom shares with his family there’s hardly any need to keep his wits about him, but his wanderings occasionally take him into the edges of far less friendly neighborhoods, places where such lack of care can have very real consequences. 

By the time he realizes, one warm July night, that he is being followed by a man as tall and young as he, but much wider and with far more capable looking hands, Tom is well away from any part of London that could be called familiar and sees no friendly faces from whom he could seek help.

His shadow is a member of the lower classes, there can be no mistaking that from his clothing, and he carries himself with a loose swing to his broad shoulders, and there is a stubborn, but not mean, set to his mouth. He has such bright blue eyes as to pierce through the all the fog and grime covering the city around them, and Tom finds himself glancing back time and time again to meet them.

Tom wonders if he’s going to be robbed and is surprised to realize he’s not at all afraid. But the stranger only follows and watches him, keeping close enough that his pursuit can never be mistaken for mere coincidence, and pursuing long enough that Tom finally turns and asks him, “Something you need, sir?”

That abrupt question gets him a smile and a cheeky response, “Something you want, sir?”

What a question that is, Tom can’t help but think. What does he want? If Tom knew, he'd be in hot pursuit of it, not out walking where he can be smirked at and teased by a stranger. He loses himself once again in thought, yet not so deeply that he does not notice when the tall, blonde stranger turns and walks toward an alley nearby.

Tom realizes with only mild shock that tonight his foremost desire is to follow the stranger away from the streetlamps and into dark shadows and discover all the secrets they may keep.

 

Afterward he walks home in such a state of distraction that he scarcely aware of the state of his person, let alone crafts an explanation as to the lateness of the hour or the mark upon his cheek.

In truth he cannot even guess at the hour until his mother comes rushing from her sitting room to the door and exclaims, “Thomas! What on earth kept you out walking until after ten o’ clock? I’ve worried myself almost to death waiting.”

Nor does he realize he bears a mark until she gasps and takes his chin in hand to turn his face up to the light. “How did you come by this scrape?” She asks, swiping her thumb across it in concern. The sting is the same he felt when the fellow in the alley turned him around and shoved him against the wall. Tom had been unprepared, unbalanced, and scraped his cheek across the rough bricks.

He’d hissed in pain when it happened, but it was soon forgotten as the fellow’s arms reached round his middle, tugged him back so that they were pressed together. Pressed so close that it was nothing at all for his hands to close around Tom’s belt. Not a bit of which can he say to his mother, and so the tale of his being robbed while out walking is born from a lie of omission.

When she asks him, “Thomas, were you attacked?” he says nothing and she assumes everything.

For a week Tom must spin the tale and every bit of it is a falsehood. Even when asked to describe his attacker he does so by painting no likeness to his fellow. For a little while it’s almost exciting to have ladies gasp and raise their hand to their chest, to have his peers slap his back in condolences. Yet too often the conversation changes over quickly to matters of politics and class, and Tom is once again overwhelmed by boredom. He cannot very well turn the conversation to where his thoughts truly like, the way it felt to be hemmed in by all that strength, the way their soft, startled sounds of excitement echo constantly in his ears.

His mother is appalled when he says that he will go walking again, but Tom will not be dissuaded. He retraces his same path from last Thursday searching every face he passes. It happened too fast for him to remember the exact shape of the other man’s jaw or nose, but he is sure he’s neither forgotten nor embellished in memory the man’s eyes. Few likely candidates appear, too short, too small, too bent over, but still Tom looks and is disappointed. Tom walks too long, so long that his feet are aching in his shoes, walks past the alley where they came together and sees no sign of him. Sighing he turns at last towards home, chiding himself the entire time for foolish hope, for mistaking happenstance for something too like fate.

Perhaps a mile into his return journey he rounds a corner there is the fellow, and it turns out it takes no glance at his eyes to tell Tom so, just the breadth of the fellow’s shoulders and his yellow hair. He is standing on th street corner opposite beside chestnut vendor. He is not alone but with several other men that he seems quite familiar with, smiling as they talk.

Tom’s steps falter but he does not allow them to stop completely. His stomach is twisting madly and he has to clench his fists by his side to keep from pressing his open palm to it. He does absolutely nothing to draw attention to himself and yet still the fellow’s eyes drift over to Tom’s face. He shows no sign of recognition except his smile which promptly slides away and is replaced by a much firmer and unhappy looking line. Tom again calls himself a fool for thinking that this man had any desire to see him again, for thinking that risking contact once more would yield some familiar welcome and not perhaps a panicked attack.

Tom’s long legs have brought him near enough to the fellow that he can see the individual whiskers, two days unshaven, on his chin. Those same whiskers had left a redness on Tom’s throat that had convinced his melodramatic mother that he’d been nearly strangled. Without thinking Tom lifts a hand to rub nervously at his throat as he passes he sees those blue eyes flick down from his face to his hand and does not miss the heat in them. As Tom surpasses the fellow and his friends on the corner their eyes meet a final time and what promise Tom can convey in only a look he does, focusing upon a single word and casting it silently across the space between them.

_Tomorrow._

He does not sleep well for questioning himself a thousand times over, for making and unmaking his plans. One hour passes and he loses the debate with himself, claims the idea a product of madness and exhaustion. Another hour passes and he admits there is no way he will fail to seek the fellow out again. Either he will find himself this time called a gullible fool and end up beaten and robbed, making true the lie, or he will see what more he and the stranger can share, giving up perhaps all pretense to virtue and right thinking. Either way an unhappy end, perhaps, and either way inevitable.

Tom is late to breakfast the next morning and takes his tea still believing he has made no decision. It begins to rain in afternoon and it does not let up in the evening. He's quite sure this is an ill omen but discovers he has made his mind up when he puts on his coat and tells his mother that there is a card game he would be loathe to miss, weather be damned. He tells her, too, not to her waste time staying up for him.

He walks with barely restrained haste to the corner where last he saw his fellow, rain pattering on his umbrella in a staccato rhythm to echo his frantic heart. Perhaps the fellow will not come, kept away by the rain. Perhaps never meant to come. Perhaps he will and Tom, being forced for the first time to speak plainly, will offend him so gravely he will leave.

When Tom rounds the corner this time he finds no one there and feels such a cold stab of disappointment that he sucks in a breath and bows his head briefly. He stands there a moment turning his head all around, stubbornly hoping, but all he spies are two women in shawls rushing miserably by. Admitting defeat, Tom pulls out his cigarette case and struggles to pull one free with one hand occupied by his umbrella. He puts a cigarette to his lips and pulls a matchbook from his pocket but cannot strike it without letting go of his umbrella.

“Let me help you with that, sir.” Two large, square hands appear and take the matches from him. Tom looks dumbly up at his fellow as he sharply strikes the match and cups his fingers around the flame.

He steps under Tom’s umbrella as he lifts it to light Tom’s cigarette.

Tom’s cheeks hollow as he inhales to make sure the tobacco lights. He blows the smoke carefully away and nods, “Thank you.”

The fellow’s blue eyes, bright still even with the sun well hidden by storm clouds, move up from his lips and meet his squarely. “Rather foul weather for a constitutional, sir.”

Tom, in the middle of another inhale, coughs uncomfortably at being so soon stripped of pretense. He cannot hold the man’s gaze and looks down at his cigarette, “Yes, I know. I.” He takes a deep breath, chest expanding and pushing ever so slightly further into the stranger’s space. “I was thinking of renting a room just to wait it out.”

He glances up, hoping for some sign that this plan will not be rejected. The fellow’s expression does not change, but neither does he move away.

“There’s a boarding house just two streets over that I think would have me,” Tom says. “Do you know it?” It's too dull a question to sound so pleading.

Chris regards him a moment longer, before nodding his head. “I know it, sir. I think you’ll find it a fair enough place to wait out a storm.”

Tom's shoulder drop, released suddenly of their tension. “That’s reassuring, ehm, thank you again, Mr.-“

“Hemsworth.” He speaks his name with no apparent pride, but directly enough that Tom has no reason to think it a false one. “Chris Hemsworth.”

What a farce it is to transfer his cigarette to the same hand that holds his umbrella, and shake hands with a man who eight days ago pinned him to a dirty brick wall and shoved his length between Tom’s thighs. Yet Tom does it, smiles nervously and says, “Thomas Hiddleston.”

Only now does Chris smile, one corner of his mouth pulling up to tease Tom. “Pleasure, sir,” Chris says, turning up the collar of his jacket as he steps out again into the rain.

Tom nods, “Indeed.”

He finishes his cigarette as walks to the boarding house, and then rents a room at the end of the hall from the owner. Once installed in his room, Tom lights a lamp and opens the curtains. He stares out at the gloomy evening for some minutes until he sees a figure, not familiar exactly but known, cross the street with his shoulders hunched against the rain and hands shoved in his pockets.

Tom draws the curtains closed and starts undressing. He steps out of his shoes and lays them neatly together at the foot of the bed and hangs his socks over the fire screen to dry them. He takes off his suit jacket and lays it over the chair and shortly after places his vest with it. His tie is similarly discarded and his collar loosened before he takes out his cufflinks, first the left one and then right. Between one cufflink and the other he hears the door open and shut, and the lock he’d previously ignored turn over.

Tom sets his cufflinks down on the table by the pitcher and basin, turns and smiles, thinking that if they are not yet friends there is at least no reason now to pretend to be strangers. Chris does not smile at him, but crosses the room in three strides and grips Tom’s neck, pulling him into as rough a kiss as any he received in that alleyway.

Tom lays his hands lightly on Chris’s waist, rubs his back in an attempt to soothe him. They have time enough and privacy, far more than they were afforded in the alley. But for his trouble his shirt is taken into two heavy fists and he is pushed across the floor to the edge of the bed then shoved down upon it. Chris covers him, one elbow braced against the bed, as he bites and sucks on Tom’s neck and tugs his shirt up, spreading his palm over Tom’s stomach as it heaves with surprised gasps.

How did this man effortlessly present such two faces? Tom does not think for a moment that he ever managed to look half so disinterested, half so ready to take or leave another meeting as when they saw and spoke to each other before. Yet for all that his desire would not allow him to pretend he had any other aim, Tom is now overwhelmed by Chris’s need. Overwhelmed and carried off as if he were caught in a flood, and just as if he were truly drowning his finds his breath stolen by deep, brutal kisses. Only he does not struggle to break free and seek air, but grips a hand in Chris’s hair and another on his shoulder to keep from him leaving.

Chris shrugs Tom's hands off roughly when he sits back abruptly and tears off his soaked jacket. As Chris tugs his shirt over his head and Tom realizes he should do the same. He sits up and his fingers slip over the buttons in his haste, but he has all but one undone when Chris’s grabs each sides and spreads it open. The button pops off and goes rolling, but Tom cannot spare even a moment to look after it as he is pushed once again back against the bed, his hair laced through with Chris’s fingers and then gripped so that his head may be tipped to near enough the right angle to be kissed again.

As before there is no time for modesty and bashfulness. As soon as Tom has a chance to think how he has been stripped naked before a stranger, his legs are already being folded around Chris’s waist, his unashamed arousal dragging along to shockingly soft skin of Chris’s stomach. As soon as he realizes that he is wantonly sucking on the two fingers Chris forced into his mouth, they are being pulled free and bluntly plunged in elsewhere. He throws his head back and would cry out, but just as before in the alley his mouth is covered by Chris’s hand, chest crushed under Chris’s weight; no sound escapes but the rush of air through is nostrils. And when Chris thrusts into him, he bites Chris’s palm without thought of the pain he might inflict or the blood he might draw.

Chris thrusts into him no restraint and Tom does not stop his own hips from hitching up to meet him. Desperate, he takes himself in hand, hearing Chris groan quietly in approval and strokes until he comes, back arched and head thrown back while Chris shoves in a final time and shudders against him.

Tom allows his legs unwrap from Chris’s waist and fall open quite carelessly and Chris lets his head drop and tuck into the hollow of Tom’s throat. They lie in an obscene heap for longer than Tom would probably guess. He waits for shame and regret to come but all he can feel is his heart beating completely unfettered despite the pleasant weight of Chris’s body upon him. He is flying and is grounded all at once. He feels well and truly alive.

“Again,” he says, discovering that his breath is not fully caught. 

Chris lifts himself up onto his elbows and smiles at him, wry. “Leave a little time in between, please.” 

“No, I meant to say this again on another night. Next Thursday.” Chris’s smile slowly leaves his lips, and Tom quickly tries to explain. “I’ll rent the room again, or a different one if it matters. Will you come?”

Chris does not answer him and Tom grows suddenly cold, feeling a fool. Upset to learn there is no understanding where he thought there to be one, he starts to pull away and Chris comes to life, pinning his shoulders back to the bed.

Startled he stares up at Chris, finding the other man more wary than angry. Slowly Tom lifts his hands and cups them around Chris’s jaw, pulling Chris down for a kiss. Though Chris balks and is no doubt the stronger of the two of them, Tom is strong enough at least to insist, and despite his inexperience tries to measure out the same passion Chris showed him upon entering the room, kissing him until they are both again breathless and heated.

“Will you come?” he asks one more time and Chris finally nods.

“Rent the room,” he tells Tom.

Tom smiles, “I will. Thursday.” And every one after if Tom can help it.


End file.
